


The Little Jet and the Stars in the Sky

by MaxWrite



Series: Hockey Night in Canada and Everything After [5]
Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Mission: Impossible (Movies) RPF, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol RPF, Mission: Impossible RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Tom learn more about each other on their second date while on location in Bangalore, India.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Jet and the Stars in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this fic happen between the events of [Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/362449) and [Across Time and Space and a Movie Set](http://archiveofourown.org/works/774432). (Next paragraph contains spoilers for past fics.)
> 
> So, that would be after Tom and Simon officially start dating, but before they officially say they love each other. This fic is about the date that Simon talks about in _Phantom Limb_. I'd really like to write something that takes place after _Phantom Limb_ , because in writing this I feel like I'm going backwards. I mean, in "present day" we've sort of gotten past Simon being unsure about the relationship and him seeing Tom as some indestructible man of steel or whatever. This fic focuses on their second date, so we're sort of back to dealing with that stuff again. Maybe my brain is trying to fill in gaps in the story to make writing in "present day" a little easier, idk. Like it's just filling in some character stuff and fleshing out their history (really, I just think I have a problem writing established relationships, but whatever). Well, apologies for giving you something that feels a bit like old material. I think it turned out nice, so I hope you enjoy it.

Tom sends a car to pick Simon up. Of course.

Even when the two of them are staying at the same hotel, the man sends a car to bring Simon to the restaurant for their date. Apparently Tom had things to do beforehand and wouldn't be going to the restaurant straight from the hotel, so they couldn't take the same car. And since Tom's made it clear that tonight's outing is to be an official date, Simon would have felt like a dick turning down the ride.

Okay, fine. Simon will let Tom be Tom, all romance and chivalry. Simon's own driver is happy to have the night off at any rate. Simon just wishes Tom had given even a hint as to where they were going for dinner.

 _"Dressy casual,"_ Tom had said when Simon asked what he should wear.

_"That's it? That's all you're gonna give me?"_

_"I trust your judgment. Just be you. You'll look great. You always do."_

_"Pfft, just be me. I should turn up in an_ X Files _t-shirt just to spite you."_

Deciding that a graphic tee at whatever posh spot Tom has chosen for the evening is too belligerent even for him, Simon has instead donned a lightweight gray sweater with a white button-down shirt and a matte satin charcoal tie underneath. And a pair of very slim jeans, because dammit he's worked hard to get into proper shape to be "Benji Dunn: Super Spy" and he wants to show off a little. Also, he's pretty sure Tom will appreciate the snugness of them.

His car pulls up to one of the most impressive hotels he's ever seen. It's not very tall with only seven floors, but it makes up for that in pure width; it sprawls across its property like a small city. The winding road leading to the front door is lined with palm trees on islands of neatly trimmed grass. The islands are lit by little spherical garden lights that, from a distance, look like they're hovering inches off the grass. The building itself is lit up as well. The topmost balconies are graced with lovely archways in soft sage-green, while the rest of the building is creamy off-white, and the archways are lined with strings of tiny white lights.

It is one of India's most lavish hotels, inside of which are three Michelin-starred restaurants. Simon doesn't know which one he's expected at, but the hotel staff does. He is greeted with smiles and we've-been-expecting-you's and is escorted through the crystal- and gold-laden interior of the building.

The restaurant he's taken to is no less impressive than the rest of the place. It's decorated in warm woods and deep rich reds, and hand-carved golden screens adorn the walls. Clear glass bowls filled with red flower petals and little floating candles sit at the center of each table and on many other surfaces in the space. Live piano music accompanies the soft hum of diners' conversations. The pianist and her piano sit at the center of the room on a small circular stage. She is draped in a maroon sari with gold floral embroidery.

Simon doesn't see Tom immediately, not until he and his escort are just feet away. The sea of diners seems to part to reveal the lone man seated at a fairly central table with two place settings. Really Simon's perspective is simply shifting as he walks, but the world might as well be literally dropping away, especially when Tom looks up at him and smiles.

Tom is dressed not unlike Simon, in a lightweight sweater over a button-down shirt, though his sweater is dark blue, he has opted for no tie, and when he stands Simon sees he's got on a proper pair of slacks. His hair is neatly combed back to keep his "Ethan" bangs out of his eyes. He thanks the hostess and then reaches out to grasp Simon's hand and pull him into a half hug, half handshake.

"Hey, good to see you," Tom says in a business-casual sort of tone that he normally reserves for people he's not sleeping with. His hug is brief and feels a little stiff. He is pulling back on the intimacy for obvious reasons. He pulls out of the hug, but keeps hold of Simon's hand and grasps Simon's upper arm with his other hand, looking into Simon's eyes with his well-practiced smile.

"Good to see you too," Simon replies, following Tom's lead; they are totally not shagging. Nope, nothing to see here folks … nothing except the biggest movie star in the world. Simon wonders why Tom has chosen such a central location for their table.

"You're server will be back shortly," says the hostess as they take their seats. Tom thanks her again and she departs. He looks at Simon again, and now that the hostess is gone, everything about him changes.

"I took the liberty of ordering you a sparkling water," Tom says in a soft, warm sort of way, like he's telling Simon he's booked them on a romantic getaway, "and an appetizer that should be here any second. I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, that's fine. Thank you."

"You look nice."

"You as well."

"I like your jeans."

"Too casual?"

"No, they're perfect. Very nice fit."

Simon smiles. "I thought you might enjoy that."

"So, you wore those for me?"

"I know you like it when I show off my assets."

Tom glances around the restaurant as though checking to see if anyone's watching them. He says under his breath, "So many filthy things I wanna say to you right now."

"Like what?" Simon teases. "Go on, I dare you."

Tom laughs, his eyes shining as he looks at Simon again. He hesitates, biting his lower lip sexily as he considers his response. Finally he simply says, "You just look very nice in those jeans and that's all I'm gonna say."

"Well, thank you. I can take a hint, though; keep it casual and light, yeah? So, um… how's your day off been?"

"Good," Tom says with a nod. "Uneventful. Stayed in mostly. Watched a movie in my room, worked on a few things, had a brief meeting, then came here. How about you?"

"Same for the most part. Also did some shopping, got a new suit."

They talk about work as Simon browses the menu, and Tom gives Simon a few notes for scenes they'll be shooting soon. For a while Simon forgets they're supposed to be on a date. Their server interrupts a few minutes into the conversation to present them with their appetizers and take their entree orders. When she leaves, they go back to discussing work.

That is until another server stops by to top off their water glasses and relight the candles that have gone out in their water-and-flower-petal-filled glass bowl. Simon watches the newly-lit flames quietly for a moment.

"Something wrong?" asks Tom.

"Yeah. This ain't a candlelight business meeting. We're supposed to be on a… you know, thing." He decides not to say the word 'date' in case someone overhears. "I mean, I know we've gotta be careful, but surely this isn't the best we can do."

Tom smiles. "I certainly hope not."

Simon exhales heavily. "This is so fucking surreal."

"Still? This is our second… thing."

"Yeah, but I didn't know the first thing was a thing until it was nearly over, and then we were off to… um… the place… to do the other thing. I barely had time to process what was happening before we were… you know. By which point my brain had stopped working. But now? Well, this is a thing from the get-go, innit? It's nerve wracking. And here we are talking about work like we've both forgotten how to be normal with each other."

Tom, who's been eating and listening, swallows his mouthful and says, "I'd have requested a more private area for us, but I figured you might want the full impact of the place. We can be moved to a more secluded area if you'd prefer."

"No, this is nice. We're already settled anyway. I'd just like to remember what's actually happening here. I mean… things are different between us now…"

Tom nods, looking thoughtful. "We haven't had much time to really enjoy the officialness of it, have we?"

Simon shakes his head 'no'. Since that rainy night weeks ago when he'd spent the night with Tom for the second time, they'd been too busy, and frankly too surrounded by other people, to just be together.

"Forget about work," Tom says. "We can talk about anything you'd like. Within reason. What I think about those jeans is probably off limits."

Simon smirks.

"I've been meaning to ask you, actually… what do your tattoos mean?"

"Which ones?"

"Any of them. How about the stars on your arm?"

Simon winces. "You had to ask about that one."

"You don't have to tell me."

"Well… it was kind of an inside joke… between me and my ex."

Tom nods and glances down at his plate. He appears cool as he cuts off a bite-size piece of potato. "Oh."

"It wasn't anything romantic. It isn't even really about her. It's just something she and I talked about. A lot."

Tom gives him a reassuring smile. "You don't have to tell me."

Simon can't quite tell if Tom is really okay or if he's disappointed. Tom continues eating quietly, which could mean anything. Does he feel rejected? Or is he simply responding to how awkward Simon now feels? "Ever thought about getting inked?" Simon asks, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Nah. Not my thing. It just seems so… dangerous somehow."

Simon nearly chokes on a piece of flat bread. He covers his mouth with his napkin to cough and snort out a little laugh, then says, " _That's_ what you consider dangerous?"

Tom smiles sheepishly. "It's all relative, right? It's just so permanent."

"So's death. Death is pretty permanent."

Tom shrugs as though he's not so sure about that. "The fact is it just seems like a bad idea. For me, personally."

"You're so clean-cut, it's sickening."

"Hey, I'm not completely innocent. Jumped off the roof of my house when I was four, knocked myself out cold. Crashed a motorcycle when I was ten. In my teens I ran naked through my neighborhood on a dare."

"And you haven't changed a bit since. Except for that last one."

Tom shrugs again. "Night's still young."

Simon smiles at that, then takes the opportunity to steer the topic away from his tattoos completely. "You were an athlete in school, yeah?"

"Sort of. High school soccer team. That didn't go so well. Tried the wrestling team next, which went better at first. I guess I had the build for it; short, stocky, strong. Seemed like the perfect fit until I put on a little too much weight." He looks sheepish again as he adds, "I have a sweet tooth. After that, it was football… until I got kicked off the team."

"What'd you do?"

Tom hesitates, but finally admits, "Might've been caught drinking before a game."

"Thomas," Simon says with mock disapproval.

"I was a kid. I made mistakes. I was never gonna be an athlete anyway. I knew what I really wanted to do." Tom gives him a knowing look. "You were the same, weren't you?"

"Me? No, any wrestling I did was entirely non-consensual on my part and purely for my lunch money."

"No, I mean the passion I felt for film and performing. You felt that too. Didn't your mother used to do theater?"

"Yeah. And my dad was in a musician. I was in a band for a while too. Must be in my genes."

"What about you in high school?" Tom asks, gazing at Simon fondly. "What were you like?"

"Same as now. Film nerd. A bit strange. Well, I don't dress all in black anymore or wear eyeliner, but I might if I didn't think I'd look like a knob."

Tom grins. "You were a goth kid."

"Dyed hair, trench coat. The works."

Tom says under his breath, "I bet you were cute."

Simon thinks of himself back then; lanky build, floppy hair, trying to look artistic, trying to sound deep when he wasn't cracking wise. Then he thinks of Tom at high school age; boyish face, charming smile, a strong, compact body, like a little bull.

"Bet _you_ were bloody beautiful," Simon says.

Tom shrugs noncommittally. "I was too short."

"Wouldn't have bothered me. I'd have noticed you."

"I would've noticed you too."

"I couldn't possibly have been your type."

"Why not? You are now."

"Yeah, but back then I was so… gothy. I still am to a certain extent, I just hide it well."

"What, you can't see a stocky little wrestler with a gothy nerd?"

Simon shrugs. "Dunno. You don't think about things like that in school. You hang with your clique and leave the others alone. I belonged with the goths and the punks and the drama students. I can't imagine I'd have even crossed paths with you in the halls."

"I found my way to the drama students eventually. I wasn't just a wannabe-athlete. I was in the school choir. My mother also loved theater. Some of my cousins were child actors, and a couple are still acting to this day. It's in my genes too."

"I know you and I have things in common. Still, it's weird. You and me."

"It's only weird to you because you think we're too different. We're more alike than you realize."

Simon isn't so sure about that. He puts down his fork and proceeds to roll up his left sweater and shirt sleeves, revealing the stars on his forearm. He didn't want to talk about them, but now he feels the need to make a point. He lays his arm on the table and says, "That's who I am. I'm the guy who inks his flesh with reminders of a past relationships. And I don't regret it, not even slightly. This is something you would never do. Not just a tattoo, but _this_. Your public image depends on you being the all-American, clean cut hero. You're supposed to exude an air of perfection, and you do that very well. Guys like you don't wear your failures like badges of honor." He pauses to push his sleeves back down. "I know tonight was supposed to be kind of laid back, and maybe it's too soon to be asking this at all, but in all seriousness where do you see this going? Are you just having fun or…"

Tom cocks his head. "You really can't see it?"

"I've just always been a very realistic kind of guy, and this doesn't seem terribly realistic."

"Really? Not even when you're with her? And she's laughing nonstop at your jokes and funny voices and you pick her up and twirl her around? Not even then?"

At first, Simon isn't sure who Tom is talking about, but he quickly catches on; Tom's youngest daughter. Simon swallows hard.

"When we were still in Vancouver," Tom goes on wistfully, "And you came over to the house just to hang out that one weekend, remember? And she roped you into joining her tea party."

"She didn't rope me in. I was lucky to get into that tea party. The wait list was killer. Just ask her teddy bear."

"Well, you've got better connections than Ted does."

"What, he's never slept with the hostess's dad?"

"Maybe once or twice, but it meant nothing. It was just cuddling, I swear."

Simon smiles at Tom's silliness. The guy's funny.

"I remember walking into the living room where she had everything set up," Tom goes on, "and there you were, sitting at her little pink table in a little pink chair so low that your knees were practically up around your ears. You were wearing your I Heart Zombies t-shirt, jeans, that army cap you love so much… and a glittery pair of fairy wings."

"Naturally," Simon says. "There was a dress code after all."

"And you were holding her magic wand with the sparkly star on the end in one hand, and a tiny tea cup in the other. Neither of you knew I'd come back yet, so I just stood back and watched you. You were _into_ it. You wanted to be there with her, not just in the room, but in the fantasy. You weren't humoring her. You were going on a journey with her, and god, Simon…" Tom pauses, looks down. Simon can just see the memory written all over his face, in the soft lines that show as he smiles. Tom meets Simon's eyes again and asks, "Not even then? You couldn't even see it in that moment?"

"I could," Simon admits. "When I looked up and saw you watching us with that look on your face like you were just… falling… I saw it. I felt it, but…"

Tom leans forward, that intense look in his eyes that Simon's become familiar with. "But what?"

 _But it seems like a lot of people could get hurt,_ Simon thinks. They're not teenagers. They're not in their twenties, or even their thirties. And they're both in the public eye. The time for mistakes as potentially catastrophic as this is over.

Simon opens his mouth to speak, but just then their server returns with their entrees. After making sure they have everything they need, she departs.

"This isn't the best place to be having this conversation," Tom says.

"No kidding," Simon agrees. He's more than a little relieved that the moment to reply to Tom's question has passed, but what now? They can't simply go on talking about their childhoods and work like nothing happened.

But they can't sit here in silence either. And Simon knows the subject is far from closed. Tom wants to know where this is going too.

"Do you like video games?" Simon asks suddenly.

Tom looks up at him, a little confused but he replies, "I don't really have time for them between work and family."

"Well, I like them. I'm a forty-one-year-old man who eagerly awaits the release of the next Mario Kart. I collect action figures, Tom. I've got them lined up on a mantle next to my BAFTA. Are you really prepared to deal with that?"

Tom smiles. "It's really not that big a deal."

"Has been for some. I've got exes who hated that about me, kept telling me to grow up, like I didn't have a job or any ambition. I've even bought action figures of myself. Oh, one guy I dated absolutely hated that." He adds under his breath, "As if he wouldn't do the same if he could've bought a tiny version of himself in a Starfleet uniform. I think he was just jealous to be honest."

"I would never do that to you. I _know_ you. And I know our business; it takes hard work to get to where you are. You're no slacker." Tom smiles. "And if you want an army of Mini Me's, who am I to stand in your way?"

"Right. Okay. Cartoons. I like cartoons, and if you don't know the difference between 'Phineas' and 'Ferb', you and I are gonna have problems."

"I have children, remember? I've been watching cartoons with my kids for years."

"Quick: who's your favorite Pony then?"

"'Rainbow Dash'," Tom replies without missing a beat.

It's Simon who misses a beat, several in fact, as he stares at Tom in surprise. He was not expecting Tom to have an answer to that, certainly not so quickly.

"Who's yours?" Tom asks with a smirk.

Simon clears his throat and avoids Tom's eyes as he quietly replies, "'Pinkie Pie'."

Tom's smirk becomes a full-blown grin as he nods and says seemingly to himself, "Pinkie Pie. The free spirit. I should've known."

"All right, that's enough of that," Simon says impatiently. "Let's talk music. Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus, The March Violets, All About Eve, Adam Ant. The fucking Cure! Christ, I almost forgot The Cure. They're gonna cut my goth card in half next time I try to use it."

Tom sighs. "You're lucky you're cute. Yeah, they're British bands. No, I'm not familiar with all of them, but I am aware of their existence."

"What _is_ your kind of music? What did you grow up on, what helped shape you?"

"Classic glam rock: Kiss, Queen, Bowie, Iggy Pop, Mötley Crüe. So what?"

"So where's the overlap? Different musical tastes isn't a deal breaker by any means, but it is indicative of a much larger issue. It's just one of the many things you and I do not have in common."

"Okay, there are a lot of things we don't have in common. But differences can be complimentary. That's what you and I are. Complimentary."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means we don't have to match. We just _go_ together." Tom picks up his water and brings it to his mouth. "And if you're looking for overlap, I'm pretty sure Adam Ant was heavily influenced by glam rock," he says before taking a sip.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Tom, you know… there are feelings at stake here. Not just ours, but those of the people in our lives. That's something we need to seriously think about. It's not just about us. Playing house was fun, but shit's starting to get real."

Tom puts down his water and says with a grin, "You like me."

"What? Course I like you. Why else would I be here?"

"No, I mean you _like_ -like me."

Simon feels his face blushing and tries, unsuccessfully, not to smile. "Oh, fuck off."

"We weren't 'playing house' in Vancouver. That was real to me. I know you're worried –"

"I'm not worried, I'm … _concerned_. For your daughter. I don't want to be a source of instability in her life."

Tom is looking at him with a soft fondness that suggests he's still reading between Simon's lines.

"Tom, I'm serious, I'm not worried about getting hurt here. I'm worried about being careless."

"Okay," Tom concedes, though he doesn't really sound like he's conceding anything. "What were we talking about before?"

"You said something about us being complimentary to one another."

"Right, right, and you still weren't convinced. Well, I'm sure there's some overlap somewhere."

"I thought overlap didn't matter."

"It doesn't as much as you think it does, but since that's the basis of your argument, proving you wrong is probably a good idea."

"I'm pretty sure proving me wrong is never a good idea."

"You would say that. Look, you're not all goth and I'm not all glam rock. You turned me onto Death Cab, remember? Whatever it is in you that likes them, lives in me too. Name some other bands you like, let's see what happens."

Simon starts listing names as they come to him, picking the more obscure ones he can think of because part of him wants to be difficult.

"Whoa, hang on, go back, " Tom interrupts.

"What?"

"What was that last one?"

"Broken Bells?"

"No."

"Alvvays?"

"No, before that."

"What, Elbow?" Simon smirks. "You don't know no Elbow."

"I do so. Their last album is one of my favorites."

"Pfft! Prove it. And no peeking at your phone, no Googling."

Tom raises his hands to show he's not holding his phone, then lowers them and looks toward the ceiling as he thinks. "Okay… okay, let's see…"

"Quit stalling."

"I'm not stalling. I _thinking_."

Simon doesn't believe that and thinks he's about to watch a very rare occurrence of Tom failing at something, but then Tom looks into Simon's eyes and recites in a low, smooth voice: "'Sweet Jesus, I'm on fire/He has the sweetest, darkest side/And when it comes into his eyes/I know iron and steel couldn't hold me'."

It takes a moment, but Simon's brain quickly finds the song title. "Huh," he says, pretending to be unimpressed. "You've gone and changed the pronouns. I see what you did there. Nice touch."

"'Good God, I'm easy bruised/But so often a moth to his flame/And the things that he's asked me to do/Would see a senior saint forgetting his name'."

Tom's eyes are doing that dark, smoldering thing, causing the smirk to wilt off Simon's face. Suddenly there's a prickling heat creeping up his neck toward his ears.

"'I have an audience with the Pope'," Tom continues. "'And I'm saving the world at eight/But if he says he needs me, if he says he needs me/Everybody's gonna have to wait'."

Simon should have known that when he handed Tom a challenge, Tom would not only rise to it but completely obliterate it. Not only has he pulled those lyrics out of thin air, but he's recited them perfectly, save for the switched pronouns, which, honestly, really is a nice touch.

Tom's smile isn't cocky (which somehow makes it even more maddening). His gaze is soft and admiring, because he didn't just win an argument. He recited poetry to his lover.

He sits back again and asks, "Did I do it? Did I pass your little test?"

"Nope," Simon replies stubbornly as he gets his bearings back.

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"That was a fluke. You only remembered those lyrics so quickly because you've probably canceled plans with the Pope hundreds of times."

"Actually, I remembered those lyrics so quickly because I had that song in my head the first time we… well…"

Simon opens his mouth and then shuts it again. That song is pretty sexy on its own, but now it will forever be associated with Tom and Hockey Night. Simon's doubtful he'll be able to listen to it in public ever again. He supposes that's only fair, if that song has been reminding Tom of him all this time.

He can feel his own demeanor changing as he begins to speak again. Now he wants to flirt. Right here, in front of a restaurant full of people. Because whatever it is inside Tom that seeks danger apparently lives inside Simon too.

He gives Tom a coy look from beneath his gingery-brown lashes and says, "Do it again and I'll shut up."

Tom leans in once more, locks his burning stare with Simon's, begins to recite lyrics from another song (which Simon quickly identifies as _The Everthere_ ) and shuts Simon right up.

When Tom finishes, Simon doesn't speak. He can't hide his impressed and strangely satisfied smile as he sips his water.

"What?" asks Tom. "Nothing to say? No 'congratulations, smart ass'?'"

Simon puts his glass down, very deliberately swipes his tongue along his upper lip under the guise of licking away excess moisture, and asks, "Would you really blow off the Pope for me?"

Tom gives him a confident, bedroom-eyed grin. "He's got nothing on you, Gorgeous."

"You're smooth as fuck, you know that?"

Tom nods. "I know."

Simon sees a little glint in Tom's eye just then. It's like, for just a moment, he is lit from within.

"Can I interest you in dessert?" Tom asks.

"We're both on strict diets for filming."

Tom reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and starts tapping at his screen. A moment later, Simon's own phone buzzes. He pulls it out to find a text from Tom, which says:

> _"I wasn't talking about food."_

Simon clears his throat and glances around surreptitiously. "I wasn't planning on indulging tonight," he says. Which is true. Or _was_ true five minutes ago.

"Any particular reason? Besides professional ones."

"Those are pretty big reasons. You know, as much as I'd love to… have dessert, maybe we should hold off on the sneaking around until after filming wraps. We'll have proper time alone then."

"Simon, there are a hundred reasons why we shouldn't. Believe me, I've counted them, and these are reasons that won't go away when the shoot wraps. But I can think of a thousand reasons why we should."

Simon reminds himself that they're not alone, that this conversation is dangerous, that the rush he feels, that tingle in his lower belly, should serve as a warning, not an incentive. But he feels terribly sexy, with Tom gazing at him like there's no one else on the planet, with Tom looking at him with that little glint in his eye whose source is not the restaurant's candles, but Simon himself.

He feels terribly sexy with Tom. Period.

"Like what?" Simon asks. "Tell me. I dare you." This time it's a different sort of dare. Simon's had a bit of fun being a little shit, but his Little Shit Mode has been thoroughly disabled. He isn't daring Tom in order to throw him off. He wants Tom to pull him over the edge with him.

Tom holds his gaze for a moment longer (a moment during which Simon swears the restaurant is so devoid of other life that he can hear his own heart beating) and then looks down to send another text, which reads:

> _"Reason #976: those two little dimples on the small of your back."_

He's not done. He keeps typing and sends another one:

> _"#744: the way your ears turn pink when you're horny."_

Simon can feel his ears burning now. He instinctively reaches up to touch one just as another message arrives:

> _"#513: the way your naked body feels against mine."_

"Christ," Simon mutters. He looks up and around the restaurant and says, "Check, please!" to no one in particular and not really loud enough to draw attention.

"How was your dinner?" Tom asks.

Simon looks at him again and has to stop and try to remember the meal through the fog of arousal that's collected in his brain. "It was good. Excellent, of course. I, um… you'll have to pardon me, I'm a bit distracted now."

"I can tell. Your ears are pink."

Simon takes a moment to slowly exhale.

"Would you like anything else? Coffee? Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Wanna go for a walk? The hotel gardens are beautiful at night. There's a private area where I'm sure I can get us some alone time."

Tom's right about the gardens. After leaving the restaurant, they are led out to an area that is thick with trees and flowers. The pathway is lit on either side by the same little garden lights that light the road out front, as well as taller lamp posts to further brighten the way. It's a perfect night; temperatures have dropped from the daytime high and it's now pleasantly warm with a nice breeze.

Tom thanks their escort, who departs, and then the two of them stroll deeper into the garden.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Simon says. "It's really beautiful."

"You're very welcome. I've wanted to bring you here for weeks now… I wonder if they'd let us film here."

"Film what?"

"MI5. Look at this path." Tom moves closer and takes Simon's hand. Simon glances over his shoulder to make sure they're really alone, and when he looks ahead again, Tom is pointing with his free hand into the distance. "Can't you just see a foot chase happening here? Through there, cutting across there…"

"You're always making a movie in your head, aren't you?"

Tom lowers his hand and looks at him. "Yeah, kinda."

"Me too."

Tom gives Simon a conspiratorial little smile, as though they now share a special secret. This is no secret of course; they each know tons of people who are also constantly writing dialogue and framing shots in their minds. But this feels special because it's just the two of them here. Simon has to smile back. He can't help it.

"You know, earlier today, I was sitting on the balcony of my hotel room doing some work," Tom says, "and I looked up and saw a flock of those birds. There were so many of them, hundreds, and they were doing that thing where they change direction on a dime. They looked like a cloud twisting in the sky. One second they looked like a dragon, the next a tornado. It was mesmerizing."

"Murmuration," Simon says. "When they do that thing, it's called a murmuration."

"I've always liked that word. Sounds kind of magical."

Simon playfully nudges Tom's shoulder with his own. "Bet you were jealous. Bet you wanted to be up there with them."

Tom squeezes his hand. "I feel like I am right now."

"You feel it now? The vertigo."

"Yeah. Every time I'm close to you like this."

Their eyes linger on each other. Simon feels a little in awe of Tom's unabashed confessions, and he swears he sees the same wonder reflected back at him from Tom's eyes. But it's only a few seconds until the moment is broken by Simon's phone vibrating in his back pocket.

"Rude," Tom says, "not turning your phone off during a romantic walk."

The little smirk on Tom's face tells Simon that the text is from him, although he definitely wasn't messing with his phone just now. He must have scheduled it to arrive at this specific time when they were still inside. The text says:

> _"#399: the sounds you make when my lips brush your skin."_

"Do you do this to all your dates?" Simon asks, putting his phone away.

"Nope. Texting isn't really ideal. Too impersonal for my taste. I'm a hand-written-notes-and-flowers kinda guy. It's convenient, though, I'll give it that. And the effect it's having on you is nice."

"Tom, there is nothing impersonal about these texts."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"…I didn't say that."

"Good, 'cause I've got another one scheduled to arrive in about ten minutes. Have you changed your mind yet about spending the night with me?"

Simon smiles to himself and watches the path move backwards beneath his feet as he walks. He can see Tom watching him in his periphery.

"What's that smile for?" Tom asks. "Is that a 'yes'?"

Simon glances at him sidelong, looking coy again, and then, just to frustrate Tom, he switches gears completely, looks off into the distance and asks, "Is that rushing water I hear?"

He really does hear water, so they speed up a bit until they reach a section of the garden where one side of the path is lined with a rocky, mossy wall, about ten feet high. Above and behind the rock are more trees, and Simon realizes that they are entirely enclosed within the garden now. The hotel is no longer visible. They stop when they reach the source of the sound; a small waterfall cascading over the rocks, emptying into a small pool. The little round garden lights surround the area, giving it an ethereal glow.

"I've had a lovely time tonight," Simon says as they stand by the waterfall, still hand in hand.

"It doesn't have to be over. We've got the weekend off, we can sleep in tomorrow."

"You know, Tom, we've both just had fairly spicy food. Tonight probably isn't the best night for anal, know what I mean?"

"There are plenty of other things we can do to each other."

Simon's phone buzzes again, so he pulls it back out. "I suppose that'll be another suggestion of what those things could entail."

"Nope, that's not me."

"Oh." Simon barely glances at the caller ID before slipping the phone back into his pocket. "They can wait then."

Tom smiles at that, pleased to have all of Simon's attention. "You know, I've been thinking about what you said back at the restaurant. About your stars."

Simon feels his stomach drop. He's fairly certain nothing good is about to be said, so he braces himself and nods somberly. "Here we go."

"What?"

"They bother you. Because you think they're about my ex."

"No, Simon, I wasn't… you're not wearing your failures on your skin. That's what you said they were back there and it's been bugging me. You didn't fail at that relationship. It ran its course and then it ended. That's what happens sometimes. You were right when you called those stars badges of honor. They're reminders of where you came from and what you learned along the way. You are who you are in part because of your past relationships, and I happen to be very enamored with who you are. In fact, that you can look back at a relationship that didn't work and hold onto the good things about it and appreciate the lessons it taught you and even wear a symbol of it on your skin, permanently, without regret or anger… that's really mature. And sexy. Whatever those stars really mean, I think they're beautiful."

Apparently the one thing Tom fails at is ceasing to surprise Simon.

"Reason number two-hundred and fifteen:" Tom says, "because you are the only thing in any room you're ever in."

That line sounds familiar and for a moment Simon wonders if Tom's said it before, but he quickly realizes what it's from.

" _Starlings_ by Elbow," he says.

Tom smiles his gentle, perfect smile, and nods.

"I keep searching for your flaw. For some reason, the fact you've chosen me always seems a good place to start, but…" Simon shakes his head. "I need to stop. I just need to stop. I don't know everything."

His phone vibrates again.

"That one's me, I think," Tom says.

Simon retrieves his phone. This time the message reads:

> _"#1 . . . . ."_

He frowns at it and then looks at Tom questioningly.

"This is the part where I kiss you," Tom explains. He pulls Simon closer by the waist, focuses on his lips, lightly moistens his own and leans in.

The kiss is soft and sweet, but powerful. When Tom slips his tongue into Simon's mouth, he may as well be sucking the air out of Simon's lungs. Suddenly short of breath, Simon inhales deeply through his nose, taking in Tom's familiar woodsy, faintly sweet scent. Needing to get closer somehow, Simon cups Tom's face and deepens the kiss, which Tom seems to appreciate; he slips his hands up between Simon's sweater and button-down shirt and feels up and down his back. The warmth from his hands comes through much more readily now. They leave hot spots on Simon's shoulder blades and the small of his back where they stop to squeeze and caress.

Tom lets out a soft moan as Simon's tongue plays with his. And that's it. That's enough to make Simon pull out of the kiss, because if Tom is going to make noises like that, they may very well end up grinding on each other up against a tree.

Tom playfully bumps his nose against Simon's as though silently asking if he's okay. Simon reassures him by nestling against him a little more.

"That's reason number one, is it?" Simon asks.

"That's reason number one."

"That's one damn good reason."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Let's go, yeah?"

Tom calls for his driver as they turn and head out of the garden. By the time they reach the hotel's main entrance, Tom's car is waiting outside for them… as is half of Bangalore's news media.

"I can't bloody well take you anywhere," Simon mutters as they approach the doors.

"Stay close," Tom instructs. "Brief answers. You know the drill."

As soon as Tom and Simon exit the hotel, they are bombarded by not only a flickering ring of flashbulbs, but also voices yelling all at once, calling out Tom's name, Simon's name, shouting questions about how their dinner was, how filming is going, how they're liking India, and even about Tom's children. Hotel staff isn't having much luck maintaining order.

Simon tosses a few quick replies and one-liners at reporters who are too close to ignore, making sure to throw in something innocuous about Tom here and there, knowing they'll ask about him anyway ("It's been great filming here. I've always wanted to come here and it's been beautiful." "Yeah, we just had a really lovely dinner. He's loads of fun. In Dubai he took all of us, the cast and crew, go-carting with him, it was fantastic.").

But Simon quickly notices that he and Tom are being separated. He bids the reporters an apologetic goodbye and maneuvers through the crowd, back to Tom who is answering questions with well crafted and memorized answers ("Just had a nice dinner with my costar and friend, Simon Pegg. Oh yeah, we get along great. He's a great guy, really funny. He gets to do some amazing things in the film.").

He must feel Simon close again, because he wishes the reporters a good evening and presses on, trying to get through them, which is no easy feat. For a moment, they actually can't move. Bodies close in on them from all sides. The flashbulbs seem to go off with greater frequency, making it difficult to see. This is nothing new. Simon's done this before, at premieres, at conventions. But something about this group feels hungrier, more aggressive, like they sense something's different here. Simon decides it must be his imagination, but he still has to remind his lungs to breathe as he squints against the flashbulbs.

He feels Tom's hand on his, gripping tight and tugging him along. The crowd suddenly parts ahead of them and a large, serious-looking wall of a man in a black suit rises before them, just behind the crowd. Simon recognizes him as Bill, one of Tom's bodyguards. He must have come with the car.

Tom and Simon are ushered to safety by Bill, who stands several inches taller than both of them and who uses his considerable girth to hold the crowd back. His booming voice commands them to back off as tactfully as possible while still being authoritative and intimidating. They only sort of listen to him; he manages to just barely keep them back from the car, but they continue to call out their questions.

Tom guides Simon into the car's backseat and follows. Bill slams the door shut for them, instantly turning down the volume of the cacophony of voices. Then Bill gets in front with the driver and off they go. He twists around to look back at them and asks if they're okay. Once he gets confirmation that no one's hurt, he turns away and the dark glass partition slides up to give Tom and Simon some privacy.

"You took my hand," Simon says.

"No one saw," says Tom. "Too crowded."

"I was all right. You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to. I'm sorry about all that, by the way. Jesus, they can be so aggressive."

He's tense. Simon can see it in his jaw. He reaches over and touches Tom's thigh, silently checking in with him. Tom looks at him and his expression instantly softens.

"I'm fine," he assures Simon, touching the hand on his thigh. "I've been doing this for a long time. I'm used to it. Still… it can be overwhelming sometimes."

"Course it can," Simon says. "You can't possibly get used to being ambushed like that."

Tom is quiet, merely nodding and looking down at his lap.

"Hey, next time we just go out the back, yeah?"

Tom still says nothing, and now Simon wonders if Tom took his hand back there for Simon's benefit or for his own.

"Hey," Simon says gently, trying to get Tom's attention back. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

"I should've told you ahead of time," Tom sighs. "I just didn't want it to be that kind of night. Well, I mean I didn't want you to act like it was, so I just didn't bring it up."

"Tom, love, you're not making sense."

Tom looks at him worriedly and says, "I knew they'd be there. We were sitting out in the open in that restaurant. I knew someone was bound to notice and that half of Bangalore's journalists would be waiting for us outside."

Simon takes a moment to process what Tom is actually saying. "So… you wanted them to find us."

"We can't ever forget that we're here to work. Publicity for the film doesn't start when the press tour does. It starts as soon as we start filming."

Ah. Simon nods and takes his hand back. "This wasn't a date, then."

"No, it was a date. It's just… killing two birds with one stone. They see us spending time together when we don't have to; that's good. A mention in the entertainment section of the paper, a story on a tabloid news show. People see that we genuinely like each other, they know that our set is a happy set. Movies whose sets are plagued by drama and bad blood don't do well."

Simon looks out his tinted window and says nothing.

"You're upset," Tom says.

"That's why you insisted we not have a private room at the restaurant."

"I know I should've said something –"

"What about Vancouver?"

"What about it?"

Simon shoots him a look that says he should know exactly what about it.

"What, the game?" Tom asks.

" _Yeah_ , the game."

"I took you to that game because I wanted you there."

"For publicity."

"You knew that. You knew that was what it was when you agreed."

"Yeah, but then things changed and I thought publicity was the last thing on your mind."

"To be fair, it kind of was. Look, it started out as two costars making sure the press got some good shots of them together, sure, but then yeah, things did change."

"So what, if it hadn't been me with you that night, if you'd asked Jeremy to go with you instead, it would be him sitting here with you having this conversation?"

Tom scrunches up his face in annoyance. "What? No, of course not."

"Well, what am I supposed to think?"

"That it was _you_ I asked to go with me. Not Jeremy, not Paula. _You_. Don't you think that means something? I wanted you there. Simon, you hate sports. And I knew that, but I asked you anyway. If I'd taken either of the other two, it would've made a hell of a lot more sense, don't you think? I wouldn't have had to spend so much time explaining the game, but I _wanted_ to do all that explaining, because it was for you. I wanted to talk to you, I wanted to be near you, I wanted… I wanted to share that part of me with you. Publicity could have been anybody. But _that_? That night could only have been you."

Simon is watching Tom speak, sees the passion that his doubt has ignited in Tom and now he feels like a prick for even asking about Hockey Night. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I shouldn't have questioned that."

"Well… I suppose I can't blame you."

Simon turns his body towards Tom, his hip straining against his seat belt. "I still don't entirely get it."

"Get what?"

"Exactly how much you felt for me before you asked me to that game. I mean I get that you liked me. I get that you were attracted to me. But it seems like there was so much more than just that, and I don't get that because we didn't really know each other very well at that point, and yet here you are coming out with all this passion about that first date like you'd been pining for me for ages."

"I told you that night. I explained it to you, at least part of it. Remember?"

"Tom, I couldn't remember my own name after you had your way with me."

Tom gives him a soft smile. "You let me be myself. Even before we got to know each other, you always knew how to put me at ease. With you, I could forget what a freak show my life can be. Even when you seemed starstruck, it never made me feel awkward. I just thought it was cute. And I admire you. You're fearless in a way that I can't be."

Simon remembers that night, remembers feeling like a fraud when Tom had told him how nice it was to be with someone who treated him like a normal person, because Simon had spent much of that night internally freaking out.

"You think I'm fearless?" Simon asks.

"You're genuine. You don't pander. That's what I responded to with you. I know when someone's being phony. You were always just you. You're unapologetic about the things you love, about your joy, about the wonder you sometimes feel about where all your hard work has gotten you. You meet so many jaded people in this business, in the world in general. We're encouraged to be unimpressed by anything and everything. We're often forced to be contained and controlled, we're raised to be afraid of being too much, too excited, too happy, too outside the box. You were a pleasant surprise. You intrigued me. I wanted more of you in my life and in myself… that sounded less dirty in my head."

Tom's joke breaks the moment (the second moment tonight when Simon has felt unadulterated awe at Tom's feelings), but it's not a bad break. It feels good to laugh after all that tension.

"I had no idea," Simon says. "I didn't know that the person I've admired for so long was admiring me so intensely right back. I was a teenager when I saw your films for the first time, and now here you are, saying things to me that…" He's experiencing some of that unapologetic wonder that Tom spoke of. "This is what I mean when I say that this is surreal. You just never imagine that a real-life superhero is gonna fall for you."

Tom smiles. "I'm not a superhero. I'm just a guy."

"Yeah. Still gotta get used to that." Then Simon asks in all seriousness, "Why didn't you just tell me what tonight was?"

"I assumed you knew."

"But why would I know that?" Simon asks gently. "Why would I think that you couldn't stop working for a few hours to have dinner with someone you're supposed to be dating?"

Tom gives him a sad little smile. "Have you met me?"

Simon rolls his eyes. "All right, you workaholic, point taken, but… this was a _date_."

"You're right," Tom concedes. "I shouldn't have assumed you knew what was in my head. I'm sorry."

Simon reaches for his hand. "'S all right. I forgive you," he adds with a smile.

Tom squeezes his hand and says, "Thanks for letting me hold your hand back there even though we were out in the open. Anybody could've seen, but… I just needed you. I just needed to feel you."

Something dawns on Simon then. He was right when he'd speculated that maybe Tom had needed to take his hand for himself, not for Simon's benefit. It wasn't that Tom had panicked; aggressive journalists are nothing new to him. He'd just wanted to feel normal. The flashbulbs and cameras and questions and strangers calling his name like they know him are all reminders that his life is very odd. He'd simply wanted to slip his hand into that pocket of normalcy that Simon apparently creates for him, to literally hold onto it, maybe even feel the rush of vertigo that oddly enough seems to soothe him.

"Any time," Simon replies, squeezing back.

When they reach the hotel where they're staying, they head upstairs to Tom's suite. In the bedroom, Simon gets more comfortable by lamp light, taking off his shoes and socks, sweater and tie, and unfastening a few buttons on his shirt. Meanwhile Tom is in the en suite bathroom, freshening up. Simon listens to the sound of running water and explores the room.

It's neat enough. The bed is unmade, Tom having opted to not let housekeeping in that day, but most things seem to be in their place. Tom is living out of his suitcase; it lies open on the floor by the closet. Inside the closet hang several garment bags and there are shoes lined up on the floor inside as well, but most of his things are still folded inside the case; t-shirts, socks, underwear, jeans, workout clothes. On the desk by the window is his closed laptop, a stack of three black folders that Simon knows are scripts. On the nightstand by the bed is an empty water glass, Tom's reading glasses with the arms unfolded, his tablet computer, his mp3 player with its earbuds all tangled. Simon picks up the mp3 player and scrolls through Tom's music. He's impressed with what he finds; a mix of classic and modern in various genres. There are several tracks by Tom's son, who Simon knows is a successful DJ. Simon makes a mental note to download some of his music when he gets the chance.

The water in the bathroom stops running. Simon puts the mp3 player down, expecting Tom to reemerge, but instead Tom calls from behind the door, "Hey, can you grab the lube from my suitcase and put it by the bed? You know, in case we wanna… rub stuff together."

Simon smiles to himself and goes for the suitcase by the closet.

Tom comes back out a moment later, shirtless and barefoot, with a white hotel hand towel slung over his shoulder. He goes for the mini fridge and takes a couple of bottled waters from inside. "I think there's a box of protein bars in there somewhere if you wanna grab a couple," he says as he makes his way to the bed.

"You can't possibly be hungry already," says Simon, who is crouched by the suitcase and rooting through it.

"Nah, they're for later. Just toss them on your nightstand. I plan to leave this bed as little as possible in the next eighteen hours, so I want snacks nearby."

Simon stops and glances back at Tom. He is seated on the bed, chugging one of the waters. The hand towel, which Simon knows is for cleaning up sex-related spills, is slung over the bed's headboard.

"You're telling me you're going to keep from working all day tomorrow?" Simon asks.

"I can and I will. Won't. Whatever."

"I'll believe that when I see it. I'll wake up at some ridiculous hour to pee and I'll find you sat next to me with your glasses on your face and a script in your hand. Or worse: your laptop on your lap because you're video chatting with someone about a project."

"I would never do that."

Simon gives Tom a skeptical look.

"Obviously I'd leave the room to video chat," Tom clarifies. "I couldn't risk doing it here with you lying next to me."

"You do realize that if you're going to work, you can't stop me doing the same."

"Fair enough. Just as long as you're naked while you do it."

"Is there any other way?" Simon asks as he goes back to rummaging through the suitcase. "I can't find this bloody thing, by the way."

"It should be in that zippered compartment there."

Simon checks inside one of the pockets and finds a couple of things. The first is the lube. The second is a little toy airplane.

A jet to be exact. It fits nicely on the palm of Simon's hand, small enough for him to close his fist around, though the wings and nose protrude between his fingers. It's cobalt blue with golden-yellow accents. The finish is scratched and even rubbed clean off in places, exposing the silver metal body beneath. It doesn't look new by any means. In fact, it looks to be from another era entirely.

"Found it," Simon says, rising to his feet again with the lube in one hand and still examining the little jet in the other. He goes back to the bed, sets the lube down on his nightstand and sits next to Tom. It's a king-size bed, so Simon has to shimmy over to get close to him.

"What you got there?" Tom asks. "That doesn't look like a protein bar."

Simon holds up the toy. "Blue Angel stunt jet."

Tom gets a soft, almost besotted look in his eyes, like he's seeing a photograph of a loved one he hasn't seen in a while. "Been so busy, I forgot that was in there. I've had that since I was a kid. I loved planes and I went through a period when I was obsessed with the Blue Angels. I wanted to _be_ a jet pilot, I wanted to perform those stunts, you know? Anytime they were on TV, I was glued to the set. Anytime there was anything in a magazine or newspaper about them, I'd rip out the article and keep it. I was just fascinated. The way they would dive and spin; I got a rush just watching them.

"My family didn't have a lot of money, so when the toys came out, I knew I couldn't have one. And I was okay with that. There were more important things to worry about. But then, on Christmas day when I was twelve, there it was. We each got a little something that year, me and my sisters. I don't know how Mom swung it." He pauses a moment, looks down at his lap. "We left Dad earlier that year. Mom packed us all up early one morning while he was away and off we went. We were better off without him, but it was still a pretty rough year. I felt guilty for months for getting a Christmas gift, but Mom always assured me that it was okay, that I deserved something nice."

Simon turns the jet over, examining it from all sides and imagining a very little Tom creating adventures with it, of him looking at it and imagining endless possibilities in a world that probably felt very limiting at times. "Do you take it wherever you go?" he asks.

"Yup," Tom confirms. "Actually, I've got two others in rotation, two World War 2 fighter planes; a P-51 Mustang and a Spitfire. One of the three always comes with me whenever I travel. I've had them all since I was a kid. I guess they're kind of like good luck charms. I've collected other models since, but these three are special."

Simon gets up again and goes and puts the jet back in its pocket in the suitcase where it will be safe. He then takes off his remaining clothes, aware that Tom is quietly admiring him as he undresses. When he's naked, he crawls back into bed, under the covers, sits close to Tom, leans in and kisses his cheek.

"What's that for?" Tom asks.

"For being a nerd."

Tom smiles. "You didn't know that about me? I saw _Star Wars_ fourteen times when I was a kid for Christ sake."

"…That's the hottest thing you've ever said to me."

Tom laughs and shakes his head.

"But that was when you were little. I wasn't sure about present-day Tom."

"So that's why you get so standoffish sometimes. You need to be with your own kind."

"Well, not to sound like a bigot or anything, but nerds are pretty superior."

"I told you, we're more alike than you know."

Tom pulls away to stand and undress too. He quickly loses his pants and underwear and gets under the covers. Simon puts his glasses aside and Tom wraps around him and kisses him deeply as they lie down together. Tom's body is so warm and firm, Simon is a little annoyed when Tom pulls away again and begins to shimmy down his body. His annoyance dissolves quickly, however, as Tom begins placing little kisses on his skin as he goes down. He is presumably on his way to Simon's groin, but he stops just short of that and looks over at Simon's left arm.

Nestled between Simon's legs, he puts his weight on one elbow to free up the other hand so he can trace the stars on Simon's forearm.

"That kinda tickles, you know," Simon says.

"Sorry. How about this instead?" Tom picks up the arm, brings it close to his face and presses little kisses to the stars. He takes a few seconds with every one, letting his lips linger on each. He brushes his lips gently back and forth over them with his eyes closed. The sensation is nice, especially when he goes over the wrist area, just beneath the heel of Simon's hand. Simon has never considered this to be an erogenous zone, but apparently it's quite sensitive. Tom teases it with the tip of his tongue and then gently blows warm air over the moistened spot. Simon groans and pushes his hips up to press himself against Tom's chest.

This gets Tom's attention and he stops to look at Simon. "I take it you like that."

"Apparently."

"I'll make a mental note." He goes back to the stars, this time tracing each star's outline with his tongue's tip. Simon reaches out with his free hand to encourage Tom with touch, combing through his hair, fingertips tracing the edges of his ear. Simon feels him squirm a bit, feels Tom's hips move from side to side against his legs.

Watching Tom almost worshiping his tattoos reminds Simon of Tom's words back in the garden. Tom gets it. He doesn't know what Simon's tattoos mean, and it's something he'd never do to his own body, but somehow he just gets it. That counts for something.

"It's a reminder to stay grounded," Simon suddenly says. Tom stops and looks at him again, this time questioningly. "The four stars. It reminds me that I'm a work in progress and always will be. I can be a bit of a little shit sometimes, in case you hadn't noticed."

Tom gives him a lopsided grin. "You don't say."

"All right, wise guy. My point is those stars remind me that I don't know everything, that I never will, and that having the ability to always learn something new about myself and others and the world isn't threatening or tedious. It's beautiful. I need that reminder from time to time. Maybe more often than I care to admit. I'm not yet five-star, you see. Only four." He shrugs. "I suppose four stars could still suggest that I think an awful lot of myself, but it wasn't intended that way."

By the end of Simon's explanation, Tom is gazing at him with something in his eyes that Simon is afraid to name, that lit-from-within look, that soft, besotted look. Love. It's love, obviously. He wonders when Tom will say the words out loud. He wonders when he, Simon, will be ready to hear them. He wonders when he'll be able to say them back.

"Thank you," Tom says.

Simon shrugs. "No big," he says. But it is big. He doesn't explain his tattoos to just anybody. He wonders if he's betraying his ex by telling Tom. But he's told others, the people in his life he's closest to. Tom fits into that category more and more everyday.

Tom watches him for a moment longer before getting back down to the business of pushing him to the heights of arousal. That look on Tom's face; Simon's seen it before, and not just when Tom has been looking at him. He's seen it on set, in Dubai, inside the Burj, in the room where he would soon drop himself out a window of the 123rd floor on purpose. The glass hadn't been removed yet and at first Tom had been walking around the space, getting to know it, picturing things, planning in his head, occasionally throwing ideas at Brad and the stunt coordinator. Then at one point, in a quiet moment, Simon had caught him standing at the window, gazing out at the city, at the sky, like he just _wanted_ to get out there.

 _That little jet is you,_ Simon thinks. Tom can't be a bird, but he can fly like one.

A split second later, Tom opens his eyes and looks right at Simon while his tongue laps at Simon's skin. It's like he'd heard Simon's thoughts. He didn't, of course (at least Simon doesn't think so… _mostly_ doesn't think so), but maybe he felt something. Tom is very intuitive, so Simon wouldn't be surprised.

Simon wonders what he is to Tom. Is he a fellow jet or the sky itself? Maybe both. Maybe something different every time.

No, he's the sky. He's the sky in which Tom wants to get lost.

"What about that little guy on your shoulder?" Tom suddenly asks. He lets Simon's arm go and instead begins teasing Simon's lower belly with his tongue. Simon arches his back and rocks his hips with a soft moan while his hand finds its way into Tom's hair again.

He realizes that Tom means the tattoo on the back of his left shoulder. "Oh, you mean Max," he says, his voice soft and breathy.

"Max?"

"He's a character from a story I loved as a child," Simon readily explains. He'll explain every one of his tattoos. If Tom wants to know, if he wants to lose himself in Simon tonight, Simon's happy to oblige.

* * *

"Sit with me a while  
And let me listen to you talk about  
Your dreams and your obsessions  
I'll be quiet and confessional

The violets explode inside me  
When I meet your eyes  
Then I'm spinning and I'm diving  
Like a cloud of starlings

Darling, is this love?" - [Starlings](http://youtu.be/SoEa7lApIKY) by Elbow

END

**Author's Note:**

>   * [Simon's tats](http://maxwrite.tumblr.com/post/67194744074/the-one-on-his-right-wrist-is-a-single-letter)
>   * [An Audience with the Pope](http://youtu.be/Loy8lPJKdXA) by Elbow
> 



End file.
